


Mxfortune

by Cor_Rodia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Asexual Character, Demon/Human Relationships, Forced Cohabitation, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderqueer Character, Kidnapping, Monster Hunters, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pansexual Character, Power Imbalance, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sort Of, Succubi & Incubi, Trust Issues, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr: Writing-prompt-s, Urban Fantasy, Witches, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-01 05:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18329123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cor_Rodia/pseuds/Cor_Rodia
Summary: Mercer is a government-sanctioned monster hunter. When he goes off the books for a special case, he runs into a half-demon kid in a load of trouble. The kid could be a witness against him, and Mercer can't let that happen. Inadvertent kidnapping, Julie Andrews movies, and the careful disposal of dead things ensues.Started as an idea for a Batman fic, somehow became a very queer character-driven Supernatural-esque whatever.





	1. I don't want to shoot you.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: off-page death, dead bodies, guns, inadvertent kidnapping
> 
> I'll always include content warnings at the top of the chapter, if you need something specific tagged let me know!

 

Physically, a mimic’s impersonation was perfect, down to the DNA. The tricky bastards didn’t revert form at death, or turn into smoke or dust like the more convenient creatures. Mercer hated mimics. He hated many monsters for many reasons, but this was perhaps the pettiest. 

The body in his trunk was not Richard Johnson, despite appearances. Mercer figured the mimic had done away with him months ago. Without proof, though, the legality of the kill was uncomfortably murky. To the observer, his story could be nothing but a cover for a murderous wife and her hit man. There was a reason most hunters didn’t take jobs like this.

Mercer parked near the waterfront. Lights glimmered on the other side of the river. Here it was dark, the streets empty and thick with shadow. He had picked his location well. 

If only he knew what the mimic had done with Mr. Johnson. He could bring both bodies to the proper authorities, maybe even earn some extra cash if the right scientist was looking for a specimen; research on mimics was pretty thin. And Mrs. Johnson deserved something to bury. At least she could mourn now, for her “missing husband.” God willing, this one would never be found.

Mercer popped the trunk. He’d done what he could to discourage identification while leaving the body intact; the results smelled pretty rough. He lugged the weight and chain out to the edge of the river. Then he went back for the body, pausing to wipe down his gloves again, just in case. The corpse was light, but unwieldy. He set it against the railing and stooped to secure the chain. A noise pulled his focus up.

Crying softly, breathing hard, a small-ish person dragged a body out of a nearby alley. Toward the river.

Mercer pulled his gun. “You have got to be shitting me.”

The figure froze. Watery eyes stared at him, at the saran-wrapped body, at the gun. The kid looked about ready to have a stroke. Mercer almost went to get the shock blanket from his car, but he tamped down the impulse.

He had to think. If this kid tossed an unweighted body in the river, or left the corpse anywhere nearby, the river might be dragged, and his mimic might be found. The kid had seen too much. He didn’t have the materials to weigh down more bodies. And he couldn’t fit two people in his trunk, not without making a mess—

The kid dropped the body, ready to bolt. Mercer cocked his gun. “Stay.”

Frozen, the kid stared at him. Bambi eyes. Mercer kept his face a mask. “Come over here. Bring your friend.”

One quiet sob broke through as the kid obeyed. The stiff looked some older than the kid. His head lolled unnaturally as he was dragged across the pavement. A few flakes of blood scraped loose from his blond hair, peppering the ground.

“Stop,” Mercer said. “Leave him there.” He crouched, one hand on the gun and one eye on the kid, and secured the chain to his mimic. Then he backed off a few feet. “Get this one over the railing for me.” The kid stared; he waved his gun at the mimic. “I’d do it myself, but my hands are a bit busy. Don’t jump. I don’t want to shoot you.” He especially didn’t want to shoot the kid in the river, but he kept that part to himself.

While the kid struggled with cinder block and corpse, Mercer went to the other body. He checked for a pulse, but the guy was most definitely dead. So he went through the pockets, taking the man’s cell phone. He cracked it under his boot a few times and kicked it into the river. The small splash was echoed by a much larger one as the mimic went over.

The kid’s look of utter horror did nothing to convince Mercer that he was dealing with a hardened murderer.

After that splash, Mercer wasn’t going to waste time. “Where’s your phone?” he said.

The kid produced it.

“Throw it here.” Mercer made no attempt to catch it, letting it clatter to the concrete. He ground it under his heel. “Toss it in the river.”

With the kid distracted, Mercer pulled the corpse up on his shoulder. He let the gun hang by his thigh. He had quick enough aim, if it came to that. “Walk toward that car,” he ordered. The trunk was still open; he heaved the blond down, tucked arms and legs inside. The kid stared, somewhere between terrified and hollow.

Mercer sighed and pulled out the shock blanket. “Put this on, get your hood up, and get in the car.” He watched until the passenger door closed. He settled behind the wheel, resting the gun in the pocket of his door. The kid sat, face forward, clutching the silver blanket. “Seat belt,” Mercer said, and the kid scrambled to obey.

He took the most direct route out of the city. Going home wasn’t a good idea, but he didn’t have any better ones.

In the quiet of the car, the kid’s dubious composure failed. Tears poured down. From all the hitched breathing, he could tell the kid wanted to stop, but the dam was broken. After a minute, Mercer said, “There’s tissues in the glove box.”

He didn’t watch, but eventually the latch clicked open. The crying muffled and puttered out. The car filled with the smell of damp tissues and mucus. They were alone on the interstate. The world was dark and silent; nothing existed but the bubble of light in front of them.

Mercer almost relaxed. No sirens in his rear-view, and he hadn’t had to shoot anybody. Still a clusterfuck, but it could have been worse.

He just had to figure out what to do with the kid.

He sighed. “This is going to be complicated.”

A snort and mutter from the passenger seat, almost too soft to hear: “Sorry to be an inconvenience.”

Mercer glanced sideways. In the dim dashboard glow, the kid tensed, escape written in every muscle.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I know you have good reason to be freaked out, but try to relax. I don’t want to hurt you. I only kill monsters.”

The kid jumped like a live wire.

Shit.


	2. Self Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: guns, references to stalking/harassment/assault, depiction of a panic attack

Mercer reached into his jacket and took the flask of holy water from the inner pocket. He uncapped it with his teeth and splashed a little on the kid’s clenched hands. A flash of golden eyes, a gasp of pain—that was all. 

Partially human, then. But even diluted monster blood could be dangerous. “What are you?” he asked, casual, as if it didn’t really matter. He kept the uncapped flask in hand.

The kid flattened against the door, hands pulled inside the shock blanket cocoon.

“I’ll find out anyway,” he said. All it’d take was a blood sample, sent to a friendly neighborhood lab tech. Or he could use magic, though that tended to be less clean and pleasant.

“My father was an incubus,” the kid stuttered.

Lying: not a good sign. Once a human fell in with an incubus, they didn’t live long enough to have children. Succubi were another story; anyone who worked in obstetrics was specially trained on dealing with pregnant succubi and their half-human offspring, though no amount of training could make it easy. Maybe the kid was hoping to protect the demon mother by misdirection.

“I don’t use my powers, I swear,” the kid said. “I mean, parts of it I can’t control, but I’ve never hurt anyone—”

“Until tonight,” Mercer supplied. “Unless you’re going to tell me that stiff in my trunk has nothing to do with you being part... demon.”

The kid was silent for a long stretch. Then, “Are you... trying not to misgender me?”

“Well, yes,” Mercer said, though that had been only part of his choice of words.

“Oh.” Sounded like the kid might cry again. “That would be really sweet if you weren’t going to kill me.”

“I didn’t say I was going to.”

The kid’s voice was shaky. “What other option is there?” Mercer didn’t say anything. Eventually, the kid muttered, “They pronouns are fine.”

“Good to know. My cousin Quinn used those for a while, so I shouldn’t mess up too much.”

The kid stopped trying quite so hard to disappear into the door. Their breathing slowly evened out. “You’re not wrong,” they said. “Carson wouldn’t be dead if I wasn’t a demon. But I didn’t mean to kill him.”

It would be an unusual choice, for a sex demon to break someone’s neck. “You did seem upset.”

They gave an emaciated laugh and scrubbed their eyes with their sleeves. “Upset. My life is over. Even before you showed up.”

“Ah, tough kid like you could’ve handled jail time.”

“It’s not that,” they said. “Carson, he ran with some bad people. I bet at least one of them knows he was coming after me tonight, even if the police wouldn’t have tied me to it.” They squashed up the tissues in their fist. “They’re not gonna care it was self defense. I’m good as dead either way.”

“Self defense,” Mercer echoed. “How’s the demon thing play into that?”

The kid self-consciously tucked their hands between their knees. “My dad told me I was kind of an experiment. He wanted to see if I would be like the kids succubi have with humans, or if I’d inherit something different.”

Ah, that was a question. Half-succubi consumed energy, same as a succubus, but they didn't have to kill (though some did). They also lacked the irresistible allure that made sex demons such a scourge. "And did you?"

“Sort of,” the kid said. “People are... drawn to me. Not everyone. Maybe one out of a hundred.” They paused. “It sucks, to be honest. Like, I hit puberty and BAM, all the sudden my best friend was trying to hump me like a dog and randos were propositioning me on the street.”

That did sound less than ideal. A sex demon probably liked having the world throw itself at their feet, but they didn’t have to live in the world as well.

“Carson sucked worse than usual. He’s basically been stalking me for months. Threatening me, but you know, trying to be subtle about it. Saying how he and his friends have all this money and trouble never sticks to them. How they always get what they want. It got so bad, Dad offered to... take care of him for me, but I was scared. Even if he protected me, I knew the fallout might come back on my Auntie. I didn’t know what to do.”

They took a long breath, sighed it out slow. Their voice wobbled only a little. “He found out I like walking by the river at night. I guess he figured, hey, no witnesses, there’s my chance.” They curled up on the seat, hugging their knees. “It was like instinct. I watch a lot of self-defense videos. I even saved up for a class, but I only went once. The instructor was another one in a hundred. But there’s this move for short people, where you get low and sort of pull the attacker over you. I didn’t have time to think about it, you know? I just did it. And he... he landed wrong.”

There was a pause. “Wrong might be a strong word,” Mercer said. “He sounds like a pig.”

“But if I wasn’t a demon—”

“Eh. Not all your one-in-hundreds assault you, right? I feel safe assuming that guy was a dick, allure notwithstanding.”

They rested their head on their knees. “Probably.”

Mercer no longer felt bad about the ignoble end awaiting Carson. He might actually enjoy putting that fucker to rest.

“Incoming call,” the car chirped. “E. J.”

Mercer glanced sideways at the kid. They didn’t look about to take a risk. “Accept call,” he said. “Hello, Mrs. Johnson?”

A frazzled voice filled the car. “I’m sorry to call you like this,” she said. “Are you... is this a good time?”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I was planning to call you sooner, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize.” He could picture her clearly, wringing her hands, tugging at her hair. “It’s just, when he didn’t come home, I wondered...”

“He won’t be coming home tonight.”

She let out a tearful sigh. “Thank you. I... do you know what happened? To my husband?”

Mercer’s knuckles tensed white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I wanted to give you that closure, but...”

“It’s enough,” she said, her voice betraying deep exhaustion. After months of living with a stranger, suffering constant fear and lies, it was over. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “And stay safe. Mimics are usually solitary, but if you notice anything out of the ordinary, call me. All right?”

“Of course. Thank you, M.”

“Have a good night, Mrs. Johnson.” He disconnected, and the car lapsed back into silence. He pulled off the highway. The trees marched in, the road little more than a dropped ribbon twisting through the woods.

The sun was rising as he pulled up to the cabin. A paling sky peeked through the dense thicket of trees. The body would have to wait.

He got out, rounded the front of the car, and opened the passenger door. The kid sat, dirty sneaker braced against the edge of the seat, arms locked around their knees. “That looks uncomfortable,” Mercer said.

The kid continued staring at the dashboard. He really should dust his car.

“Are you going to live in there now? ‘Cause I have to say, the logistics of that are going to be a little complicated.”

“I exist to complicate,” they said.

“Please get out of the car.”

Maybe it was the please; more likely, the gun still held by his thigh. The kid stiffly unfolded and let him close the door. Their feet shuffled in the leaf litter.

“This is where I live,” Mercer said, “so it would hardly be in my best interest to kill you here when I could have done it somewhere safer.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Fair question. But it had one fatal flaw; it assumed Mercer had a plan. “To be honest, I’m making this up as I go along.”

The kid stared at him. They even managed a derisive expression. Mercer considered this progress. He shepherded them inside. “Down that hallway,” he said.

The kid stopped at the end of the hall, blinking at the beast of a door. Mercer opened the multiple locks and keyed in the code. The lights flickered as he dragged it open.

The kid stared at the clumsy cement stairs, the caged dirty-yellow bulbs, the secondary steel door at the bottom. They looked at Mercer again. Acid churned in his stomach, an empathic reaction to the bald terror on the kid’s face. “It’s just a bunker,” he said. “My grandfather built it. It’s safe.”

“I. Have literally never felt less safe.”

And they had been assaulted mere hours ago. Mercer sighed, a scratchy rustle in his dry throat, and holstered his gun. “I’ll go first.” He trotted down. It took a minute to get the door unlocked, but he resisted the urge to check over his shoulder. If they ran, he would catch them. He knew these woods, and even with diluted blood, there were ways of tracking demons.

“There,” he said as the door squealed open. He flicked the lights on and turned back, looking up at the kid. Their fists clenched tighter; it must have hurt. Mercer leaned on the door frame and studied them. “What is it about coming down here,” he asked, “that is worse than coming into the house?” They swallowed so hard he’d have sworn he could hear it.

“I’m not going to kill you.” He could promise that. It would have felt too much like stepping on a hamster.

“You’re not going to let me go, either.”

Mercer climbed the first step. They wanted to bolt, clearly, but they didn’t. He walked up slowly, and as the distance shrunk, the kid’s composure crumbled. Mercer stopped. “ _Breathe_ ,” he said.

They were trying. Their rattling gasps hardly counted, though. Mercer rarely found himself out of his element, but he didn’t have the first clue what to do with a hyperventilating half-demon.

The kid collapsed into a crouch, gripping the door. Wide-open eyes stared into nothing, as if haunted by a future only they could see.

Mercer closed the distance and, knowing it was a dick move and possibly a horrible idea, picked the kid up. His instinct had been right—they were too locked in panic, too busy fighting to get air in their lungs, to put up a struggle. He carried them down to the bunker.

At least he had decided, years ago, to replace the military-style cot of his grandfather’s day with an actual bed. It took up a lot of space, but it was much more hospitable. He set the kid down, gently, and they immediately scrambled back into the corner. Still hyperventilating. “Should I look for a paper bag?” he asked helplessly. “Is that a real thing?”

“Never—tried—” the kid managed.

Mercer took out his phone and searched “what to do if someone is hyperventilating.” He had to do it from upstairs; the bunker had shit reception. “It’s a real thing,” he said as he came back down. “I’ll look. You could try lying down and holding your breath?"

Mercer didn’t have a paper bag, which did not really surprise him. The harsh, heavy breathing eventually softened to a natural rhythm, and he gave up looking.

The kid lay on their back, hugging a pillow. Tear tracks glistened down into their ears.

“Are you okay?” Mercer asked.

The kid did not dignify this with a response.

Mercer sighed and closed the heavy door. Then he checked the door to his office. Locked, as expected. He made a sweep of the room: no weapons lying around. He had some food that wasn’t spoiled, despite being away dealing with the mimic for over a week. He chugged the closest liquid, vanilla Starbucks latte. It wasn’t like he was going to sleep any time soon.

“Do you want anything?” he asked, standing out of the way so they could see the content of the fridge.

Only their eyes moved, and soon they were back to staring at the ceiling.

He pushed a glass of water across the table; they’d have to sit up to get it, but it was within reach of the bed. They didn’t move.

“Okay,” he said, “so. Bathroom’s there. Help yourself to anything that isn’t locked up. There’s some movies under the bed,” he added, absently patting the boxy TV on the kitchen counter. This cramped little space had never looked so sad to him before. “Everything’s soundproofed, so just... I’ll come back to check on you later.”

The kid did not say anything. Mercer was almost glad. As helpful as it might have been, he didn’t want to know what they were thinking.

On a whim, he took the knife block off the counter and tucked it under his arm. “Be seeing you, then,” he said, and left, locking the door behind him.

He sat on the porch a long while, the knife block beside him, but this was not a situation he could contemplate his way out of. It wasn’t the first time he’d brought someone to his bunker against their will, but those had been monsters—real ones—and it cost him no sleep to get whatever he needed and dispatch them. This kid wasn’t dangerous; if anything, the world was more of a danger to them. He stared at his car, where the fuckboy’s remains moldered. He wished he could bring Carson back to life so Mercer could kill him himself. What a fucking mess.

The kid hadn’t tried to bargain, promising they would never tell about that body in the river. Just as well; Mercer wouldn’t have believed them. It was a risk he couldn’t afford. With Carson’s friends to worry about, the kid’s best bet would be some kind of police protection, and giving up Mercer was their chance at getting it. His reputation wouldn’t save him. Every power structure had its share of clever monsters, wolves in bureaucrat’s clothing. If they had something to pin on him, they’d make damn sure to crush him with it.

It came down to this: Mercer ruined the kid’s life, or he let them ruin his. Mercer considered his life to be pretty worth-while. Without him, Mrs. Johnson would still be sleeping next to the creature that murdered her husband. He had saved countless people, put down countless horrors.

The kid, it sounded like, could barely leave their house without getting harassed. Mercer couldn’t pretend the bunker was a gilded cage, but it was safe. He wondered about the aunt, if the woman even knew her sister’s child was part demon.

He stood up. There had never been any other options. He was just searching for a stopper to put in the flood of his guilt. It was a mercy he didn’t deserve.


	3. It's a party.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a body is buried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: corpse disposal, references to torture/death

Mercer gathered his supplies: shovel, gasoline, hatchet, etcetera. It was getting past noon. He’d have to start driving soon.

He opened the bunker carefully. After all, clichés were cliché for a reason; the kid could be waiting to beam him with a blunt object.

The kid sat on the bed, inspecting his movie box. They didn’t look up. The water glass was empty.

“Hey,” Mercer said, “I’m heading out to deal with your friend. Do you need anything?”

The kid picked through his VHS tapes. “Are these antiques?”

“Not in any way that matters,” Mercer said. “I’ll get food on the way back. What do you like?”

They didn’t say anything. They reverently selected an old Julie Andrews movie.

“Like, Chinese food? Burgers? I just got paid a shit ton for that mimic, you want steak?”

They turned the tape over and read the back. Mercer had never seen anyone pay that much attention to the fine print. “Orange chicken.”

“You got it. I’m going now. Unless you need anything else.”

The kid glanced his way, then back at the tape. “What are you gonna do with him?” they asked.

Mercer sucked his lip, wondering if details would make things better or worse. “I was thinking burn and bury.”

The kid got up, slowly, as if Mercer was the jumpy one. They stared at the VCR. “I don’t think I know how to do this.”

Mercer rounded the table, hand out. The kid gave him the tape, and he slipped it into the TV. “You have to rewind it at the end,” he said, pointing to the button. “I think there’s popcorn in a cupboard somewhere.”

“It’s a party,” the kid said dryly, and Mercer laughed. He felt like shit for it, but the kid didn’t seem to mind.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, retreating toward the stairs.

The kid gingerly combed through the nearest cupboard, ignoring him. So he went.

He drove for hours; darkness descended over the trees. When he was well and truly in the middle of nowhere, he stopped. The marshy ground drank up the mess beautifully. He hauled the dismantled parts into the woods, digging and burning and covering up. He did the head last, farthest away from where he’d parked the car. His light glimmered on blond hair, soaked with blood and gasoline. He struck a match. “This is for the kid.” The match fell, and the hole blazed. He let it go awhile, watching the smoke, then kicked the pile of upturned dirt back in. Hole, fire, and Carson, all swallowed up by the earth.

It was afternoon again by the time he got home. He left his supplies in the car for a good bleaching, and carried his shopping spree inside.

Again, he was cautious opening the door, but no lamps or vases swung at him. Not that he had lamps or vases in the bunker. The TV buzzed with white noise, but no sign of the kid.

He knocked on the bathroom door; a startled splash answered. He suddenly felt bad about the fact that the bathroom down here didn’t lock. “Hi,” he called through the door, “just wanted you to know I was back. I brought food, and clothes and stuff.”

“...Could you put some clothes by the door?”

“Sure,” Mercer said. “I’ll wait in the stairwell until you’re done.”

“That’s... thanks.” Water sloshed, and the drain of the tub opened with a rush. Mercer sat on the stairs and combed through his email. He had a job lined up, but maybe he shouldn’t. Lee could have it.

After a few minutes, the kid appeared at the bottom of the stairs. The Batman shirt was slightly too big. They traced the bright yellow symbol. “You’re a pretty good guesser,” they said softly.

“I stick with safe bets.” He’d bought mostly t-shirts and pajama pants and hoodies, stuff that was better a little big. He stood, and the kid moved away to let him down. The TV was off. _Victor/Victoria_ sat on top. “I tried to think of everything, but if there’s something that’s not here...” Mercer trailed off, glancing around at his purchases. “I’ll bring back anything you don’t need.” He’d gotten things for periods, things for shaving, all the things. He had no idea what he was doing. “There’s food,” he said, unnecessarily, as the smell of peanut oil and orange sauce filled the bunker. “I’ll eat upstairs if you want me to.”

The kid sat at the far end of the table and said nothing. Mercer spread his take-out containers across the table, to indicate his willingness to share. “Did you like the movie?” he asked. They must have; he’d been gone long enough for them to have watched a half a dozen movies, but that was the only one out.

The kid’s mouth was full, but they nodded. When they could talk without choking, they said, “I’ve seen it before.” They sipped at the end of their water. “It kind of sticks out, in your... collection.”

“It was formative,” he said, and he swore the kid smirked. “I can get different things, if you want. More Julie Andrews. More people in drag. Actual queer movies made this century, even, if I can find my DVD player.”

The kid focused on their food, but after a minute, they said, “You don’t have any books.” Their tone was accusatory.

“I have some in the office, but I don’t know if they’d interest you.” Lexicon of the Demonic and The Guide to Responsible Spirit Expulsion were not exactly compelling literature. “I mostly do the audiobook thing.”

“You do a lot of driving,” the kid observed.

“Yeah.” Mercer spun his fork through the rice noodles, then unspun them. When had he last eaten? “I can get you books.”

The kid sighed, and Mercer attempted eye contact. It was not received. “I’ll live.”

“I’m not under the impression that you need books and Julie Andrews and superhero-themed clothes to live. I’m just...” Trying to cover up a severed limb with a cute band-aid. “Look, I know it’s fucked up, this whole situation. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t care. You’re a human being, or close enough, and if I have to do this I’m going to be as nice about it as possible.” Even though it did literally nothing to make him feel less like a dick.

The kid stared at him for a long time. They stuck their fork in the tin of pot stickers and pulled it to their side of the table. They said, “This is fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s not gonna stop me from trying,” he said, attempting to sound more casual and less miserable.

The kid stuffed a pot sticker in their mouth. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Mercer wondered what it felt like to be happy. The last thirty-six hours had squeezed any memory out of him.

#

He slept upstairs in what he called the guest room, even though he never had guests. Before. He slept poorly; by sunup he was out sanitizing his supplies and the trunk of his car. Cold and smelling of smoke and bleach, he stood at the top of the stairs. He needed to use his office sometime.

They didn’t move when he came in. Looked like they were sleeping, but faking was just as likely, so he locked the bunker door behind him. His office was as he had left it. A pile of research materials for the Johnson case teetered on his desk. He re-shelved the books and collected the papers to feed the wood stove. He listened to his messages, none of which were Lee getting back to him about that ghoul. Damn. He might have to take care of it himself. Probably for the best, anyway. He should act like nothing had changed.

“Holy shit.”

Mercer jerked toward the door, and there was the kid, their dark hair a lopsided nest. He followed their wide-eyed gaze. The shackles. The wall and floor around them were a patchwork of screaming stains, the kind that never came out. It did look rather ominous.

“What is that?” Voice quaking, the kid backed away from the door.

“Don’t worry about it.”

The kid stared at him. “You fucking torture people.”

Mercer breathed hard through his nose, and regretted it. It made him sound aggressive. But it’s not like that was worse than the demonic remains on his wall. “I don’t torture, torture doesn’t work.” He glanced at the grotesque shadow of his past kills. “Those chains are just to hold things still while I get what I need.”

“How?” the kid asked doubtfully.

Mercer lifted one hand and drew a shape, one of the simple ones he had memorized, in the air. A little burst of light formed over his hand, soft and white like a formless moon. In that magic glow, the invisible symbols scrawled all over the walls came to life, pulsing with clean blue energy.

The kid blinked. “What the fuck.”

Mercer clapped the witch-light between his hands, and the sigils blinked away. He brushed the sparkling dust from his palms. “The magic doesn’t hurt,” he said. “Though the protections I have around the bunker do make it uncomfortable for them to be here. I just make them tell me what I need to know, and then it’s over.”

They crept to the threshold again, pulling their eyes away from the shackles. They scowled at the display of weapons. Guns he kept in his trunk, but the full arsenal took up too much space. He had a handful of swords, a crossbow, a silver net, anything he’d ever used to dispatch a monster.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Mercer said as he gathered what he needed to start on the ghoul.

The kid stepped into the room, but not toward the weapons, which was good. Mercer rarely felt like a fight first thing in the morning. They were looking at the bookshelves. Almost everything there was work-related, but they zeroed in on one of his few purely fictional possessions. “Really?” they said, pulling out the mass-market paperback. A red, suggestively-horned demon leered over a swooning woman.

“That was for a case,” Mercer said. “The portrayal of demonic society in those books is surprisingly accurate; we thought the author might be a demon, or a sympathizer. Turned out she’s just really dedicated to research.” Mercer could relate. Possibly he was a bit of a hoarder, when it came to case work.

“I don’t know anything about demonic society,” the kid said, skimming the back copy.

“Are you... old enough for that book?” Mercer said, leaning into the immense hypocrisy of applying any sort of moral standard to someone he had kidnapped.

“Yes,” they said hotly. “I’m an adult.”

“Sorry. You have one of those faces.” Mercer took an armful of stuff and made for the door. “You can read it if you want, but I have to lock up now.”

They cast another wary look at the cover, then tucked the book under their arm and let Mercer shepherd them out. 


	4. Like the stuff that starts fires.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which progress is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references to death, discussion of misgendering/deadnames

Despite his intention to give the kid their space, Mercer found himself lost without his bunker. Over the years, more and more essentials had migrated down there; the cabin was practically a facade. He had laundry to do, and calls to make, and all he had in the upstairs kitchen was a box of stale cereal.

So he went down again, with an armful of dirty clothes. The kid kept reading. He opened the closet, revealing the compact stack of washer and dryer, and shoved his clothes in.

The kid was paying more attention than they’d let on; they went to fetch their own dirty clothes from the bathroom. Absently, they picked up their jeans, and a handful of coins clattered out of the pocket.

Mercer knelt to help. Pennies, tissues, a plastic card—the kid smacked their hand down over it before he could pick it up.

Mercer rocked back on his heels, startled despite himself.

The kid peered through their bangs as they pulled the card closer. “It’s my ID.”

“Okay,” Mercer said leadingly. Were they worried about him knowing their address? Surely they had no reason to think he held ill will toward their family. The human half, at least.

Hesitantly, the kid continued, “My state doesn’t have a gender-neutral option for IDs yet.”

“Ah,” Mercer said.

Using their nails, they peeled the card off the floor, hiding it against their leg. “It also has my deadname on it. I know how you magic people are about names.”

“A deadname isn’t the same as a true name,” Mercer said, “and you might be blowing the danger there out of proportion.”

“That lady on the phone called you M.”

True, but his caution then had nothing to do with name magic. “It’s short for Mercer.”

The kid blinked. Mercer hadn’t meant not to give them his name, but he supposed it would seem as if he’d been hiding it.

“You don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want to,” he said. Though he couldn’t keep calling them “the kid” forever. Ugh, no, better not follow that line of thought.

They considered him for a minute, the tension slowly bleeding away from their shoulders. “You know, you seemed so scary at first. And now you’re just some gay motherfucker with a weird name and dogs on his pajamas.”

Mercer looked down at his pants, as if he could retroactively pick out more dignified pajamas. “These were a gift. And I’m sort of pan.”

“Flint.”

It took Mercer a minute to catch up. “That’s your name?” They nodded. This was more progress than he had expected, perhaps ever. “Like the city?”

They shrugged. “Like the stuff that starts fires.”

Mercer smiled. “That’s a good name.”

“Thanks. I picked it myself.”

#

Mercer really didn’t want to take this case. What if it kept him away for days? Not that Flint would miss him, exactly, but still. He was a solitary sort, but for him, human interaction was only a drive or text message away.

And what if he didn’t come back? He hardly thought one ghoul would bring him down, but anything was possible. He had to tell someone. Not another hunter; he’d trust very few of them with his bunker, and even fewer with Flint.

He dug the spare keys from deep within the bottom drawer and wrote a letter to Quinn.

As he sealed off the envelope, there was a knock. “Yeah?”

Flint peeked in. “Hey. Um. What day is it?”

“Thursday?” Technically Friday morning.

“Shit,” Flint said quietly.

“What’s up?”

They glanced toward the shackles on the wall, then down at their slippers. “My dad always visits me on Friday nights.”

“Oh.” They almost-but-not-quite made eye contact with him. He wasn’t sure what they were thinking. “He won’t be able to find you here,” he said neutrally. “Not with the sigils.”

Flint flopped against the door frame. This information had shifted the direction of their thoughts, for better or worse. He had no idea how Flint felt about their father. He couldn’t imagine having positive feelings for an incubus, but. Family was tricky.

“I’m worried,” Flint said. “He’s... he says all the time how he wishes he’d thought of having children sooner. He even tried to have another, a few years back, but...”

Mercer could fill in the blank. It must have taken enormous self-restraint for the demon to hold back long enough for Flint’s mother to give birth; no surprise he hadn’t managed a second time. Generally, a human under the sway of a sex demon could expect the fun to last only a matter of weeks.

“I asked him not to try again,” Flint said. “I was old enough by then to realize having a sibling wasn’t worth putting them through this. But if he can’t find me, if he thinks I’m gone...”

“I see.”

Flint looked at him now, wary. “You’re not taking this like I expected.”

Mercer tried to look non-threatening. He probably needed more practice. “How so?”

Flint chewed their lip. “I thought I’d be bait in an incubus trap by now.”

The thought had occurred to him. It made him feel like shit. “There are lots of monsters,” he said noncommittally. “Usually I go after the ones people tell me to. There’s not a lot of money in shooting into the shadows. Anyway, your father might deserve it, but you don’t deserve to be used like that.”

Flint stared at their bitten-down nails. “He’s always been good to me.”

“You don’t have to justify your feelings,” Mercer said, “least of all to me.” He tipped his chair back; the balancing brought his mind into focus. “Wouldn’t hurt anything if you see him.”

Startled, Flint pulled closer, drawn to Mercer’s orbit. “Really?”

“It’s not like he could take off with you.” Demons could cross dimensions at will, but piggybacking a human, even a half-human, was complex magic that required preparation. Not to mention said human would last about fifteen minutes on the monsters’ side of the rift.

Skepticism closed over Flint’s face. “You won’t try to kill him?”

“No.” Not with them watching, at least.

“He might try to kill you.”

“I can protect myself from allure, and my car is covered in sigils. He won’t be able to touch me.” Incubi were not fighters, anyway. Mercer could kill an incubus in his sleep.

Flint sagged against the desk. “I know he’s dangerous, but I feel like he’ll be so much worse if... if I let him be lonely.”

Mercer sighed. It must be a universal pitfall of parenting, to have unfair burdens fall upon the child. He stood and rolled his shoulders. “That being the case, I think I’ll call it a night.”

Flint followed him out, and he locked the office door. “Mercer,” they said softly as he turned toward the stairs.

He stopped.

Flint leaned against the bed, eyes averted. “I... I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

He’d figured. Flint seemed to be having trouble with most things. They barely ate. Even Victor/Victoria couldn’t hold their attention any more. Anxiety nibbled away at them.

A thought hit Mercer like a cinder brick. “Are you supposed to be on medication?”

Flint shrugged. “I can live without it.”

“What is it?” Mercer asked. “I can get it for you.”

“It’s prescription.”

“I can get it for you,” he repeated, more sternly than he’d intended.

They flinched, but their eyes met his again. They dictated the name and dosage; Mercer typed a note into his phone.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” they said, “the last thing I need is you getting arrested.” Mercer did not consider this likely. “It’s just. I can’t really use a lot of my usual coping mechanisms.”

“Because you’re not at home, and I made you throw your phone in a river.”

“Essentially.”

“How can I help?” Mercer asked, feeling like a toad.

Flint kneaded the thick blanket into a topographical nightmare. “I had this white noise app. The TV... helps, but it’s not the same.”

“Okay. Give me a minute,” he said, already half-way up the stairs. “I need reception.”

He stood at the top of the cement steps, combing through a billion options. “Do you want, like, forest sounds? Or the ocean?” he called down.

“Ocean is fine.”

He sat at the table while Flint made themself comfortable. Only narrowed eyes and a tangle of dark hair showed beyond the blankets. “You’re going to sit there until I fall asleep?”

Mercer looked down at himself. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I guess so.”

Flint’s eyes disappeared. “You’re ridiculous,” came muffled from inside their burrow.

The bunker filled with the crash of waves. Mercer disliked the ocean—who knew what monster lurked down there?—but he had to admit, it was relaxing. He rested his chin on folded arms and closed his eyes. A distant seagull called. He could almost smell the salt.

Mercer woke up with a sore back. He lifted his head, running a hand over the divots his sleeves had made in his cheek. Ocean waves echoed through the bunker.

Both doors stood open. Flint was gone.

Mercer shot up, checking his holster as he ran upstairs. His gun was still there. And he’d locked the office. The worst thing Flint could be armed with was a kitchen knife. If he set up a tracking spell—

He barreled out the door and almost tripped. Flint was sitting on the porch. They looked up at him, calm. “Hey.”

Mercer caught himself on a porch post. The blood rush made words impossible. “Uh,” he said.

Flint looked out at the mountains, twisting away over bare branches. “I decided it wasn’t that great an idea. Running.” They shrugged. “If I’m going to die, I’d rather not do it looking over my shoulder, or succumbing to exposure in the wilderness.”

Mercer’s breath evened out. He collapsed next to them, eyes squeezed shut. “Thank God.”

Flint said, warily, “You didn’t really think I’d make it to civilization, did you?”

“No,” Mercer admitted. “I just... I really didn’t want to hurt you.”

Tentatively, Flint patted his shoulder. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know that much.” When Mercer opened his eyes, Flint was watching him. “I’ve been wronged a few times in my life, but no one’s ever tried this hard to make something up to me.”

“Really? Because I feel like I’m doing a shitty job.”

The flash of a smile lit their face, soft and bittersweet. Then they turned back to the trees. “It wouldn’t be safe for me to go home, even if I could. So I guess we’re stuck with each other.”

Mercer wanted to say something—something funny or charming or at least pleasantly inane—but he couldn’t find the words. So he stood up. “You hungry?”

Their gaze flicked to him. “Starved.”

“Waffles?”

“Oh God, yes.”

Flint did not come in with him, and Mercer didn’t ask them to. He brought a blanket with the first plate of waffles, and Flint’s book with the second. Flint spent the day out there, reading or wandering the edges of the property, the blanket wrapped around them like a cape. Mercer checked in from time to time, but they were always there. 


	5. Hello, sailor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are illegal but no one cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references to death and suicide

Mercer drove out into the patchy field. Moonlight made spindly, pitch-black shadows of goalposts and bleachers. There would be a game tomorrow. It was an exceedingly ill-chosen place to do anything messy, and from where Mercer parked there was nowhere to hide. He didn’t expect these things to matter much to an incubus, but there was an illusion of security to it.

Flint fidgeted in the passenger seat. They picked up Mercer’s phone—he resisted the urge to reach for it—and checked the time. “He won’t be able to find me if I’m in here?”

“Right.”

Flint sighed, put the phone down, and opened the door. A frigid breeze cut through. Flint buttoned up the overcoat Mercer had lent them. “Can you keep the lights on?”

“Of course.”

They closed the door and paced several yards away, just within the glow of the headlights. With their head bowed, hands stuffed in pockets, they looked even smaller than usual.

Mercer felt like a villain in a story, sacrificing an innocent to the dragon. Of course, Flint’s demon father had more of a right to them than Mercer did. Preposterous as it seemed.

Mercer had a strong prescience toward demonic presence. The uneasy feeling warned him before the figure appeared in a golden mist. His gun hand itched; it wasn’t often he hid in his car while there were monsters around. He ignored the swell of acid in his stomach as the demon cupped Flint’s face and kissed their cheeks. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, not clearly; he almost wished Flint had gone farther away.

The demon glanced toward the car, squinting into the headlights. He was beautiful, Mercer could admit that much. Incubi and succubi were attractive by trade, but from an objective, physical standpoint, they ran the gamut of tastes. This one was lithe and graceful, his gold-brushed skin and hair glittering in the light. Searchlight-yellow eyes widened as he listened to Flint, who gestured awkwardly at the car, apparently explaining Mercer’s presence.

The demon stalked toward him. Despite a muffled, “Dad, no,” the incubi gently brushed his hand across the car’s hood. He twitched slightly at contact with the spelled metal. Seeing him closer, Mercer decided Flint looked a bit like him, especially around the mouth.

The demon hopped up on the hood of the car, legs folded under him, looking like something out of a sexy calendar. “So, this is the gunslinger who kidnapped my child.” His tone was usually reserved for people saying “hello, sailor.”

“Yep,” Mercer replied.

Flint’s face was half-hidden behind oversized sleeves. “M, this is my dad, Jasper.”

“The pleasure is all yours,” Jasper hissed. He leaned against the windshield, studying. Mercer stared straight back. The demon turned to Flint. “I don’t know what you see in him.”

A careful blankness settled over Flint’s face. “Dad, come on, let’s talk over there.”

“It’s warm here.” Jasper curled up on the car like a big yellow cat. He bared a fanged grin at Mercer. “Besides, wouldn’t want to upset your keeper.”

“I’m not their keeper.” Mercer resisted the urge to cross his arms. The demon was waiting for him to respond—sexually, emotionally. Mercer would give him nothing.

The demon scowled; even that was beautiful. “Oh, you didn’t force them into your car at gunpoint and lock them in your basement?”

Mercer could have defended himself, some. When he’d met Flint, they had recently killed someone; by all accounts he ought to have reported them to the police. And the fact that he hadn’t been able to do so actually worked out better for Flint, saving them from Carson’s lackeys.

He didn’t feel like defending himself. He said, “I wish it wasn’t necessary.”

“Humans,” Jasper spat. “You’re all full of shit. At least demons don’t equivocate about what we do. You wish? Then do something about it.”

“Like?”

“Fake their death and send them to Mexico, I don’t know! Don’t pretend hunters can’t do a bit of shady problem solving, that’s like 80% of your bag.”

Mercer begged to differ about the percentage, but otherwise... He looked at Flint, hovering nervously beside the car. “That’s not a terrible idea.”

Flint looked back, eyes wide.

The demon tsked, scraping a claw across the hood. A twist of black paint curled around his finger. “Hadn’t even thought of that? I guess hunters don’t watch soap operas.” He laughed. “Makes sense. Soaps are for people with emotions.”

“We can’t fake my death!” Flint burst out. “Auntie would freak.”

“So tell her.” Jasper slid across the hood to put an arm around their shoulder. “It’d be helpful, even. Then you’ve got family ready to say ‘oh yes, this is them, no need for an autopsy thank you.’” Flint seemed to be thinking it over. The demon ruffled their hair. “You can start a new life. I’ll help. If this joker can’t get you papers, I’m sure I could manage it.”

“I can get papers,” Mercer said. “I won’t even have to sleep with or murder anyone.”

Jasper bared his teeth, more sneer than grin. “Good to know you’re not totally worthless.”

“Dad,” Flint complained, “cut it out. He didn’t have to let me do this, you know.”

“He has no right to control anything you do,” Jasper said fiercely, his words like needles.

“Consorting with demons is literally illegal,” Flint said.

Jasper scoffed. “Human laws hold no sway on you, darling.”

“They do on him.”

Technically, Mercer had a dispensation to speak with demons and monsters. This was generally assumed to be used only for work. But everyone knew hunters’ lives could get complicated, and the wording was vague.

Jasper was unmoved. He crawled back across the hood, bracing both hands on the windshield to stare Mercer down. “You will do whatever it takes to give Flint their freedom. Or one day, the second you let your guard down, I will fucking end you.”

Mercer stared back, unblinking. “I suggest you do not threaten me.”

“Or what?” The demon licked his lips, and Mercer’s throat went unusually dry. “You like a fight, Van Helsing? I wouldn’t mind, myself.”

“Stop it,” Flint said. “Enough with the pissing contest already.”

Mercer put his hands up in surrender. He didn’t think he was the one at fault, but it wouldn’t hurt him to shut up.

Jasper’s eyes narrowed. “What are your intentions toward my child?”

“Dad,” Flint said sharply, but the demon shushed them.

Mercer kept his eyes on Flint. Less chance of unintentional escalation. “I don’t have any.”

“Humans are such terrible liars.” Jasper inched closer to the glass. “You may be immune to their allure, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? No need for magic when there’s good old-fashioned hormones.”

Mercer glanced away, because he didn’t imagine Flint wanted him to see them looking so mortified. He cleared his throat. “You asked about my intentions. I only intend to do what you said: help Flint get a new life.”

Jasper’s breath fogged on the windshield. “You won’t be tempted to keep them for yourself?”

Temptation was meaningless. It only mattered what he did. “No. I can’t guarantee I can make it safe for Flint to leave, but it won’t be for lack of effort.”

“Hm.” The demon turned back to his child. “Do you want to write something for your aunt? I’ll drop it in her mailbox.”

Flint lit up like a sparkler. “That would be—” The brightness fizzled, and they looked at Mercer. Their guard had broken with that smile, and their face betrayed everything: fear that Mercer would say no, hope that he wouldn’t, resentment at being made to ask.

“I have paper,” Mercer said. He hoped this scheme worked out; he didn’t enjoy feeling like a dick at every turn. He dug a notepad and slightly chewed pen from the glove box, and Flint got into the car to write. Jasper lounged across the hood, reading Flint’s letter upside-down.

“I’m not going to mention you,” Flint assured Mercer. “Or say that Carson died, because she might feel like she has to report that. I’ll just say he attacked me and I ran away. That should be safe enough, right?”

“Sounds fine,” Mercer drawled. “Let her know you’ll contact her again. If your dad’s not around to play courier, we can email her about the plan later, as long as we’re careful.”

Jasper shot him a look, but Flint’s pen went on scratching across the page. When they were done, they folded the sheets neatly—despite the slight trembling of their hands—and got out, another blast of cold taking their place.

“Be careful, please,” Flint said.

Jasper rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to forget myself and fuck your aunt just because you’re not there.” He pulled them close and kissed their forehead. “See you next week, yes?”

Flint glanced at Mercer, but didn’t wait for him to react. “Yes.”

“Good. Chin up,” he said, claws trailing under their jaw. “I’ve got you.” With that, he was gone.

Flint scrambled back into the car, holding their hands up to the heating vents. “He was serious, you know.”

“Don’t worry, if he somehow managed to kill me my cousin would come check the bunker, so even if you did end up trapped down there it wouldn’t be for long.”

Flint stared. “Why would you tell me that? If my dad knew, he wouldn’t even hesitate.”

“I can handle him.”

Flint let out a heavy breath. “Fair.”

They drove in silence. Mercer cracked first. “It’s really not a bad idea.”

“You think so?” Flint asked with contained desperation.

“I should be able to get a body no problem, we just have to stage it right.” He paused, worrying his lip. “A suicide would be best.”

Flint went still.

“Since your aunt knows about Carson and all, even an accident could lead to investigation. We need to discourage that as much as possible.”

They nodded woodenly. “I can write a note. And my ID—”

“Yeah, that would be perfect.”

Flint drummed idly on their knees. “What’s going to happen after?”

Mercer shrugged. “Your aunt might have ideas. Other family?”

“Maybe.” Their voice softened, almost lost under the roar of the heaters.

“Once we get you new papers,” Mercer said, “you can do whatever you want.”

“I can do whatever I want right now,” Flint replied, see-sawing between playful and obstinate.

“True. What do you want to do?”

Flint settled back in the passenger seat. “Get some French fries.”

Mercer couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Flint echoed disbelievingly.

Mercer turned down the town’s strip, dark and lonely in the early morning. “I think there’s a 24 hour place somewhere.”

Flint laughed this time. “You’re not afraid I’ll beg the drive-through kid to save me?”

“Not to besmirch the hard work of Wendy’s employees, but I think that’s above their pay grade.”

Flint’s smile blinked through the dark curtain of their hair.

Mercer waited until they were settled in an abandoned parking lot with a feast of fast food. “I was thinking,” he said carefully, “that you might want to change your look.”

Flint swallowed hard; he couldn’t be sure if it was the topic or the over-enthusiastic eating. “How?”

“Maybe your hair?"

Their hand lifted, as if to run through their shoulder-length locks, but they took a second look at their salt-crusted fingers and thought better of it.

“You don’t have to.” Flint knew this, probably, but he felt the need to say so anyway. “Unless something goes wrong, no one should have a reason to suspect. It would just be a precaution.”

Flint hummed thoughtfully and dipped another fry in their frosty. Mercer finished his burger and got back on the road. 


	6. Nesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a promise is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references to death/body horror

It had been the least of his concerns, but Mercer had missed his bed. He woke to the familiar quiet of the bunker, and for once his heart didn’t leap with panic at the thought of the kid. He crept upstairs to the guest room, all but sure of what he would find. Flint was asleep, one limp arm poking out from under the blanket. Mercer’s phone sat on the bedside table, making ocean noises. He slipped in and reclaimed it without waking them up.

He planned to start on the Flint situation, but he had a message waiting. Lee. She couldn’t take the ghoul case, but she had looked into it—three more people missing. Fuck. Ghouls usually didn’t escalate like that, except when nesting. If someone didn’t take the job soon, the client, not to mention his entire town, might end up dead.

By the time Flint wandered down, he was packed and ready. He handed them a stack of pancakes. “Can we talk?”

Flint eyed his travel bag, but they pulled up a chair. Mercer paced the frustratingly short distance between bed and kitchen. “So, I have to leave.”

Flint cut their pancakes like a pie and stuffed one triangle-shaped piece in their mouth. They waved their fork in a “go on” gesture.

“There’s a case I have to take care of. I swear, as soon as I get back, we’ll get you sorted out.” He anchored himself on the back of the chair. Flint was very focused on their pancakes. “I’m sorry about putting it off, I know that’s not fair to you—”

“You’re not doing it on purpose, are you?”

Mercer’s energy dropped, squirreling away across the floor. “No.”

Flint’s eyes flicked up through stringy bangs, then down again. “Okay.”

Mercer crashed into the chair, arms crossed on the table. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Okay.”

“ _Why_ would I do that?”

Again, dark eyes met his before falling away.

“I promise,” Mercer said, “I’ll start calling people about it while I drive. That way if I don’t come back—”

The fork clanged against their plate. “There’s a chance you could...?”

“There’s always a chance.” And a nest of ghouls was a much bigger risk. Usually, Mercer wouldn’t take this kind of job without backup. “But I’ll set things up for you. I’m sure your dad can help you with the details.”

Flint stared.

“Your pancakes are getting cold.”

They mechanically took another triangle and nibbled it into a circle.

“My office is unlocked,” he said. “There’s money in the desk, and phone numbers. My cousin Quinn will come get you if you call, but xe's a ways away.”

The circle disappeared into Flint’s mouth, and they poked at the next piece.

“I’m sorry,” Mercer said. “I know the timing sucks. But I’m not trying to get out of anything.”

“Okay.”

Mercer resisted the urge to beat his head against the table. “I wish you would tell me what you’re thinking.”

Flint picked up their plate and scraped the remaining pancake into the trash. The plate rattled on the counter. “You know how I can do anything I want?” they asked, their back turned to him.

“Yeah.”

“I want to come with you.”

Mercer stood. “That is a very bad idea.”

“Is it?” Flint marched up to him, craning their neck to keep eye contact. “I don’t know a lot about hunting, but it never hurts to have someone watching your back.”

“I am not going to let you get eaten by ghouls,” he said fiercely, and Flint took a step back. Maybe it was worth it. “You ever seen a ghouls’ nest? Severed limbs and half-eaten rotting organs everywhere? Trust me, you do not want to be anywhere near this shit.”

“Neither do you!” Flint said.

Well, they had him there.

“Besides,” Flint said, “I’m part-demon. Won’t most monsters leave me alone?”

“Ghouls are unpredictable when they’re nesting,” he said, though he couldn’t muster the same conviction. It was true, demon kin rarely fell prey to creatures that targeted humans.

“I was not under the impression that this would be safe.”

“Then why do you want to do it?”

“I just do.”

Mercer stared them down; they stared back, unwavering. His sigh came out more like a growl. “If you’re not ready in half an hour, I’m leaving.”

“Happy” was not the word to describe Flint’s face as they darted toward the bathroom. “Victorious” might have been close enough.

#

Mercer spent the next thirty minutes wondering if he should drive off and call it his good deed for the day. But against his better judgment, he couldn’t leave Flint behind. It wasn’t just about ditching his responsibility to them. What it was, exactly, he didn’t know.

The door opened, and Mercer did a double-take. Flint jumped down the steps, a bag tucked under their arm. “Your hair,” Mercer said numbly.

“Yeah,” Flint said, running a hand over the fuzz left on their head. “Didn’t take too long. It makes my face look different. Is it even in the back?”

Mercer nodded, leaning on the car like a bump on a log.

“Are we going?” Flint prompted, and Mercer woke back up. He let Flint get settled in the passenger seat, then dropped a stack of books in their lap. Not that they could make up for an utter lack of experience by spending a few hours with Hunting for Dummies.

While they read, he made calls. It wasn’t difficult to get someone started on a new identity for Flint. Finding a body was the hard part. Staging it as a suicide didn’t help. Accidents were one thing, but the common methods of suicide rarely came with the sort of maiming that precluded identification. Maybe drowning, if they could simulate enough age on it, but that would put the discovery time out longer than he thought Flint would want. His colleagues agreed it was a stumbling block, but not an insurmountable one.

“Mention one of those cold lakes in the note, and ask for them not to search. It’s enough of a hassle, probably no one will bother. I hear Lake Tahoe is lousy with bodies.”

“Right,” Mercer said thoughtfully, “something about bacteria? If it’s cold enough, the dead don’t float.”

“It’s quite the thing. If you do decide you need a body, of course let me know and I’ll dig one up for you.”

“Thanks.” Mercer disconnected the call. Flint was looking at him. “He didn’t mean literally,” Mercer started, but Flint held up a hand and went back to reading.

The moon was high by the time they reached the town. It was a sweet little place, though the telephone poles plastered with MISSING posters were less than idyllic.

A short, balding man marched across the town square, a sawed-off shotgun resting on his shoulder. Mercer rolled down the window. “I’ve never known you to drag your feet, Mercer,” the man griped. “Not when people are dying.”

“It’s... complicated.”

He leaned closer to the car, narrowing his already-small eyes at Flint. “Who’s this?”

“I’m what’s making it complicated. My name’s Flint.” They stuck their hand out the open window.

“Isaac,” the man said as he shook hands. “Mercer didn’t tell me he had an apprentice.”

Mercer bit his tongue. “It just sort of happened.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Flint said sidelong.

“Well, glad to have ya. I’ve been doing my best to watch over the town, but I’m too old to be out chasing devils through the woods.” He bobbed his head northward. “Police figure they came down from the mountains, but no luck searching up there. Quarry down by the south-east might make a good nesting ground.”

“We’ll check it out,” Mercer said.

“Good luck.” Isaac’s knobby hand dug in his pocket, and he held out a folded check. “Half up front, like the old days.”

Flint took it from him and, after a moment’s hesitation, peeked inside. They whistled. “This job pays better than I expected.”

“If you survive,” Mercer said meaningfully, and Isaac chuckled.

“Yeah, that’s how it goes.” He saluted Mercer, jostling his old shotgun. “You get into trouble, give me a call. I’m not good for much but I’m better’n nothing.”

“That’s me,” Flint said as they drove away. “That’s it exactly. I’m not good for much but I’m better than nothing.”

“You’re good for a lot,” Mercer said. “You’re a winning conversationalist, and dangerously convincing. I’m just not sure fighting literal hellscape corpse-eaters is one of those things you can pick up on the fly.”

“We’re gonna find out.” Flint tucked the check in the glove box.

“I guess so,” Mercer said. If nothing else, their earnings from this fiasco would give Flint some money to start their new life. If they survived.

He parked at the edge of the quarry, angling his headlights so they never disturbed the darkness below. The idling engine rattled his bones. “Here’s the plan,” he said. “You keep the car warm. If you see a ghoul, run it over. Or shoot it.” He patted his gun in the driver’s door pocket. “If I come running up with a horde behind me, mow down what you can and get out of here. Don’t worry about me. Okay?”

Flint blinked at him. “If I’ve got the gun, what are you gonna do?”

“I have a flame-thrower in the trunk.”

“You’re kidding.” He wasn’t. “That’s sick, why don’t I get one?”

“I’ve only got the one, and they take some getting used to,” he said. “Not that the gun doesn’t. Try not to shoot yourself.” He took a quick scan; no sign of anything in the woods. “C’mon, take my seat.”

Flint skirted around the car and got in. They looked more a kid than ever, moving the seat up so they could reach the pedals. Mercer cleared his throat. “Um, you can drive, right?”

Flint’s stare could have replaced his flame-thrower entirely. “I can drive.”

Mercer made a hasty retreat. He stood at the quarry’s edge; crumbled stone slanted down into total darkness. He glanced back, blinking in the glare of the headlights. Despite the worry, it did feel more good than bad, to have the kid watching his back. He called up a witch-light, and the hunt began. 


	7. It's not bad.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ghouls are roasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: fire, vehicular ghoul-slaughter, needles, references to suicide

There is one downside to killing ghouls with fire. It takes a minute. And with that intervening minute, the ghouls will chase you. And they will be on fire.

Heat licked his neck. He couldn’t stop to check if it was only proximity or if he was burning. He ran. The night split with a cacophony of ghoulish wails, the sound shriveling as flames collapsed their lungs. It damn sure wasn’t happening fast enough.

A sharp light cut over him, and Mercer stumbled, blinded. His jacket whipped back as the car raced around him. CRUNCH. The remains of a ghoul smoldered under the tires.

Torched bodies clamored at the car, trying to get over to him. Shots split the air. “MERCER,” came a voice like iron. “Get that fucking coat off!”

Without a thought as to why, he shucked off his coat. It sat on the ground, burning half-heartedly.

The passenger door popped open, hitting his arm. He dropped in. Before he could close the door, the car reared back, jumped forward again, slamming a few more toasted ghouls. The smell was horrific.

His adrenaline waned, giving his mind a chance to catch up. He slammed the door and put on his seat belt. It looked as if most of the ghouls were dead, or close enough. “I told you not to do that,” he said, breathless, cradling his hand. The pain was kicking in.

“Didn’t look like a full-on horde.” Flint pulled a U-turn, crushing a few more ghoul bones for good measure. “More of a smattering. Not quite as dire. Though your hand’s another story. Jesus.”

“Still got all my fingers,” he said through his teeth. “I’ll have to give myself a ghoul shot.”

Flint’s hands jerked on the wheel. “Don’t tell me being a ghoul is catchy.”

“Not unless you die,” he said, “and I don’t plan to. But they carry some nasty shit.”

Flint drove to the edge of town and pulled up under a streetlight. They followed Mercer around to the trunk. Damn, it was hard to fix a syringe with one hand.

“Let me,” Flint said, and took it from him. He leaned against the car, rolled his sleeve up. Tried to breathe. His neck itched from the heat. “Here.” Flint passed him the loaded needle. He held it over the crook of his elbow, waiting for his hand to stop shaking. It didn’t.

Flint placed a steadying hand on his arm. “Do you want me to try?”

“Shit, maybe. You don’t mind?”

They shrugged. “I know my way around a needle.” Mercer gave them the syringe. They pinched his arm still against the cold car window. “Don’t look,” they said. “D’you get all the ghouls?”

“Think so,” he said shakily. “They were all settled in, too. Fucking dozen of them. Even if a couple survive, they won’t stay.” He sucked a breath through his teeth. “You don’t have to wait for me to calm down, just do it.”

“I already did.” Flint held up an empty syringe. “Hold on, I’ll get a band-aid.”

Mercer looked down; a bead of blood welled in the crook of his elbow. It disappeared under a sticky bandage, smoothed down by Flint’s steady fingers. They stepped back, and the first tremors started in their hands. “Well,” they said, “that was a night.”

Mercer nodded. His heart rate was slowing; it seemed his nerves had jumped to a new host. “Are you okay to drive?” he asked.

Flint looked down at themself, at their shaking hands. “I don’t know.” They laughed like they were about to choke. “Ridiculous. After all that, now I fall apart?”

“That’s normal,” Mercer said, pretty sure that was true. “Don’t worry about it. You’re fucking good in a crisis, you know.”

Flint’s laugh sounded a little less like a harbinger of death that time. “If you say so.”

They wrapped Mercer’s hand up as best they could, and sat in the car. Mercer got Isaac on the phone; the old man congratulated them on not dying. Flint sipped at a water bottle. Mercer indulged in something a little harder. Finally, Flint turned the car on. “So. Home?”

“Yeah,” Mercer said with a sigh. “Unless you have a better idea.”

“No,” Flint said after a minute. “Home is good.”

#

Flint’s aunt received a package postmarked Glenbrook, Nevada. It contained a sweatshirt, an ID card, a few other personal effects, and a note. She did not read the note, because it wasn’t real, and why upset yourself over something that wasn’t real? She passed it on to the police. Before long, everyone knew Flint was gone. The hooligans from around the block stopped harassing her.

She knew it was all a fake, but still, she hardly breathed until the next email came. Flint wanted her to come up and visit for Christmas. They said they were staying with a friend.

#

Like every Friday night, Flint took the car and drove a careful distance from the cabin. Mercer went along, that time, though Flint seemed to think their dad was in a better mood without Mercer around. The demon grew somewhat less hostile as Flint showed him their new ID, and cell phone, and copy of Mercer’s car and house keys. “Great, but when are you going to leave the bastard?” he asked loudly. Mercer smirked at him from inside the car.

Flint shrugged. “I’ll leave when I have somewhere to go.”

Not that they had been looking.

“He’s too old for you,” the demon grumbled, softer but not soft enough.

It started to snow as they drove home. Flint put their seat back, watching the flakes rush by. They didn’t look away from the window as they said, “Hey. How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

They laughed.

“What?” he said, wondering if he should be offended.

“I am. Exactly. Half your age plus seven.”

“Is that... good?”

Warm fingers found the crook of his elbow. Flint kept their eyes on the snow. “It’s not bad, Mercer. It’s not bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
